


Gone Fishing

by SpaceHotel



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Horrible cat puns, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Teasing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 18:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12018606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceHotel/pseuds/SpaceHotel
Summary: There was nothing wrong with running. You kept a low profile, minded your own damn business, and pretended you were alright with the cards you were dealt. Denial was the flavor of the day, and you would savor it all the way down to your grave.And if a cute superhero came knocking at your window, offering you the safety and comfort you probably needed but would never openly admit, you would run away from him too.It was business as usual in the daily life of an accidental criminal.





	Gone Fishing

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! How are you doing today? Just fine, I hope! Settle in and make yourselves right at home.
> 
> This is a rewrite of my old Chat Noir story, Trashbox Summer. Though I wanted to continue writing, I was largely unsatisfied with it. I've left the original up for those who have enjoyed it (feel free to read it if you're interested, though I advise against it).
> 
> With that tidbit of info out of the way, I hope you enjoy!

Go to school, they said. Get a higher education, they said.

That little kernel of advice sounded good coming from your ever-doting grandparents. Obediently you had followed through with their request because you felt you owed them as much. They were caring but strict, and in days past you had been the unlikely rebel rouser. You lacked structure, they often declared. Over time you were likened to a five-story building that was built upon a crumbling foundation—one sneeze and the whole thing would come tumbling down. And when you fell, you fell hard.

So, when they told you to pick yourself back up and walk the straight and narrow path, you brushed yourself off and did what you were told.

You filled out college applications until your hands cramped. You said goodbye to old friendships and old habits. And then, when you were finally accepted into your university of choice, you said goodbye to your family and country too.

Were you happy to leave? Not exactly, but it was something that you desperately needed to do. To go someplace where distant memories couldn’t reach you.

It seemed to happen so fast that you’d hardly had the time to form any college expectations outside of what you often saw in movies. What else would it be besides a strange new world riddled with campus parties and fraternities, giant lecture halls and enough essay papers to cover the walls of your apartment from floorboard to ceiling? Maybe there would be time for fun and games between late-night shifts at your job and 4 am study sessions. And maybe afterwards you would be coherent enough to remember to brush your teeth and take a shower before getting three hours of sleep, just to repeat the cycle anew.

Such were the mundane responsibilities of a college student, the daily chores of life, and it hadn’t taken long for you to realize that responsibility sucked and you were still a reckless child in the body of a would-be adult. Attending university in a different country had been a convenient excuse for a new and well-needed change of scenery. Though you hadn’t really expected anything less, you were still disappointed to find that life after high-school was just as troublesome halfway around the world as it had been back home.

To say that you wanted nothing more than to sleep your frustrations away and spurn the light of day was more than just an understatement. It was a notarized letter with your name written all over it, and you would gladly deliver it to the first person who so much as look at you the wrong way today. Melodramatic? Perhaps, but you were exhausted, you were seriously hurting for some cash, and you were smart enough to put two and two together and realize that adding two plus two was about the extent of your mathematical abilities—when it came to counting in French, anyway.

And wasn’t that just the crux of your current dilemma?

With furrowed brows and a narrowed gaze, you glanced down at the address that had been hastily scrawled onto a crumpled napkin. The black ink was smudged, the handwriting borderline illegible, and the napkin itself smelled strongly of three-blend cheese and pepperoni. But no matter how long you stared at it you found it hard to decipher the directions.

Speaking French was one thing, a little difficult at times but something you could manage. Reading it was a separate beast entirely. You were so terrible at it that you wondered if the elderly couple who owned the mom n’ pop pizza shop had given you the cashier/delivery position because you gave off a palpable air of destitution and wilting dreams. As if ‘broke-ass college student’ was an off-brand perfume, and you had sprayed on way too much.

And then you found yourself wondering, not for the first time, if hopping on the first plane that you could afford to Paris had been such a good idea when you clearly only had a rudimentary understanding of the language.

A reckless child in the body of a would-be adult, indeed.

“I don’t know what I was expecting when I moved here. But not this. Definitely not this,” you monotonously stated, equal parts vexed and amused. The tired kind of humor that rears its head upon the realization that getting frustrated just isn’t worth the effort anymore.

You took time to straighten out the thick strap of the delivery bag on your shoulder, then pressed your phone back against your ear. Through the crackling speaker you could hear a voice reply, “Still having a rough time adjusting?”

A moment was spared to ponder the question. You were currently standing in the middle of the sidewalk, a quickly cooling pizza in one hand and something dangerously close to an existential crisis in the other. It was 10:47 on a windy September night. You were lost, you were cold, and your shift wouldn’t end until you delivered a large sausage and pineapple pie to some rando whose address was as hard to find as Waldo in those books you used to flip through as a child (and you never did find the stripped bastard).

Could you divulge all of that to your brother though? Absolutely not. Forget the fact that he was the textbook definition of an overprotective sibling, you had your pride and you were more than intent on keeping it fully intact.

You pursed your lips and diluted the truth. “Yeah, you could say that.”

A few feet away, a crosswalk sign flared to life. Overhead, a faulty lamppost buzzed and flickered as you walked by a row of unfamiliar houses and cute corner stores. You made your way across the street, slow and steady, with the sound of your brother’s heavy yawn bouncing about in your ear.

Time zones, man. They were hard to adapt too. The sun was but a rising star hovering just above the horizon where he lived, oceans away. That never kept him from calling though, a warm slice of home in every word he spoke. He cared, and you cared that he cared, and yet neither of you said much on the matter.

“You’ve only been there for what? Two months?” He paused as you corrected him—a month and eleven days, to be exact—before he continued. “You’ll get used to things eventually. How are you holding up otherwise?”

“I’ve eaten so much cheap convenience store ramen that I’m fairly certain soggy noodles have officially become my lifeblood.”

“That stuff is so unhealthy for you though. If you’re going to eat junk, at least try for something with even an ounce of nutritional value.”

He made a sound of disgust, a deep gurgle in the back of his throat. You could just envision his frown, the subtle hint of disapproval in his eyes. Somehow, you got the feeling that he didn’t appreciate your narrow-minded culinary preferences. Leave it to a chef to be a food snob.

The huff you gave was exaggerated, just so you were certain he could hear your exasperation. “Sorry, no-can-do. I’ve got cabinets full of the stuff, and it’s the only thing on the menu tonight. Tomorrow night, too.”

He sighed but relented, because what was he going to do from halfway around the world? “In any case, you’ll get out of utter financial ruin eventually. Saving up money takes time, you know.”

He was right of course, but you didn’t think you were doing too bad for yourself, all things considered. Sure, you complained a lot and money was tight, but the normalcy of your new life in Paris was a stark and welcomed contrast to the way things had been back home.

Normalcy was good. Normalcy was safe. It was boring as all hell too, but that was a woe best saved for another day. Right now, you had a pizza to deliver and a longwinded textbook to read through when you returned to your apartment. _The_ apartment, a bleak imitation of a place to call home. Maybe in time you would get used to the barren walls and second-hand furniture. 

Maybe, but you wouldn’t hold your breath.

And then your brother ruined your idle musings with a tone of voice you just knew was accompanied by an obnoxious grin. “Besides, you’re pretty resilient. Like, high-tier cockroach status. If they can survive off of garbage, then so can you.”

“Alright, not one-hundred percent in love with your tone right now,” was your dry reply, but his cheeky laughter was enough to make you softly chuckle as well. 

You scolded him for his rude sense of humor before making a hard left onto a new street, and it was then that you realized you had somehow stumbled into the upscale part of town.

Posh homes sat atop manicured lawns, the type you’d seen in a travel brochure you had read during the flight to Paris. The type that belonged to old-money, trust fund babies, wealthy people who could write out checks with more zeros than you could accurately count. Intricate iron gates enclosed acres of private property, and fancy cars you couldn’t even afford to sit in the backseat of were lined up neatly down long driveways.

Okay, hold the phone. What multimillionaire had decided to order a pizza from the greasiest, most obscure hole-in-the-wall pizzeria this side of the Eiffel Tower?

The crumpled napkin was swiftly dug out, and this time you stared at it until your eyes burned with the need to blink. You had followed the directions your boss had written out to the best of your ability, and though that wasn’t saying much, it wasn’t too hard to match what you read with the street signs you had passed. This seemed to be the correct neighborhood, and a brief glance down the road confirmed the accuracy of that deduction; Place du Châtelet read the sign positioned just a few feet away. You were in the right place.

This was ridiculous. 7 pm sitcom material, really. Where were the hidden cameras and onsite studio audience?

But, hey. Even rich people craved pizza every once in a while, right?

“Hey, bro? I’ll call you back later. About to make a delivery.”

He didn’t question the sudden incredulity in your voice, and you figured he was too tired to notice as he let loose another yawn. Instead, he hummed out a soft reply before you wished him a good day and promptly hung up.

Both phone and napkin were stuffed back into your pocket. You steeled your nerves and willed your legs to move you towards the massive and immaculate mansion. The word mansion, you thought, seemed ill-fitting: four floors, nondescript crème colored walls, French door windows, gray domed roofs, and a cupola posted at the very top. It was sleek, elegant, and you were a street-rat casually waltzing up to it in your greasy work uniform.

It was hard to miss the surveillance system attached to the gated entrance, below which were two speakers and a glaring red button. What a hassle. You pitied the poor sap who had to deliver packages to this place on the regular.

All thoughts of hesitation were forcefully shoved out of mind, out of sight, as you approached the intercom and pushed the button. And then you waited.

And waited.

And soon you began to count the number of windows on all four floors, each tile that formed the roof, the number of seconds that ticked by. The breeze was harsh against your skin, a chilly moisture-sapping gale that seeped into your bones. You licked your chapped lips and pushed the button again, harder this time.

Still no response.

A third ring yielded similar results. You contemplated the likelihood that whoever resided here was fucking with you. Unlikely though. The lights were clearly on, and if you squinted you could see a bundle of celebratory balloons through one of the windows on the second floor. Must be some kind of party, maybe there was no one around to hear you buzz.

Just as you were about to forgo all courtesy, really ram your thumb against the button and refuse to let go, a woman’s curt voice startled you.

“Please refrain from ringing a fourth time. Are you not aware of how late it is?”

Her French was precise, with what you assumed was proper diction and enunciation, and was as crisp as the weather through the speakers. And sure, you may not have understood all of the words she used, but in the end it was unnecessary. Intonation was easy to follow. She sounded aggravated, like the continual ringing was a source of great irritation. You knew a thing or two about irritation.

You lifted your head to the camera and made a face that went hand-in-hand with her tone. “Pizza delivery.”

She didn’t reply, even after you raised the delivery bag into view. You weren’t offended by the cold shoulder though because the gate opened seconds later. With a thumbs up directed towards the camera, you sauntered down the driveway.

You weren’t into fancy expensive stuff, but you would admit that up close the mansion was an architectural masterpiece. A low impressed whistle escaped your lips as you took the steps, two at a time, until you reached the front door. And there, standing in the threshold, silhouetted by the harsh fluorescent lights inside, was a well-dressed man whose smile seemed surprisingly sheepish.

He greeted you with a nod of his head, pausing to brush his blond hair from his face. If you were a more self-conscious person perhaps you would have taken the time to straighten out your own appearance too. You didn’t need a mirror to know that your hair was windblown, apron askew, and that your shirt was littered with stains—the antithesis to his sophisticated attire.

“Hey, sorry about that. I thought we left the gate unlocked,” he kindly offered, and for a moment his words were nothing but white fuzz in your ears. “I hope you weren’t out here too long.”

Your reaction was delayed, your brain working full force to translate his sentence and then your response, from French to English and then back again. Rattling off phrases you used often for work came easier to you than casual, unrehearsed dialogue.

“Long enough. It is alright though, no problem. I have for you two large pizzas, sausage and pineapple. That will be $21.99—” no, wait, that was wrong. “Ah, I mean $11.99.”

The young man took out the appropriate amount of money, and the exchange went by without incident. What you hadn’t expected was for him to pull out another ten dollars, or for him to offer it to you expectantly. He noticed how bewildered you appeared to be because he stacked the ten on top of the other bills in your hand.

“For making a lady wait outside in the cold,” was his simple explanation, and you were even more surprised to hear him respond in English.

Was your accent that noticeable? Was the word ‘foreigner’ stamped in big letters on your forehead? _Was he psychic?_

You frowned, switching to English as well. “Woah, wait a minute. I’m not some charity case. It’s my job to stand out in the cold, yeah? And if you don’t hurry, you’ll be heating up your pizza in the microwave. Doesn’t taste the same when you do.”

“How long have you been here?”

The question was so sudden, so out of the blue, that you paused your attempts to shove the money back into his hands.

“What?”

His smile was gentle, non-judgmental. “Your French is a little robotic, and not in the ‘I’m naturally aloof’ sort of way. I just assumed.”

“…I’ve been here for about a month and a half.”

“Have any friends yet?”

“Not really,” you said haltingly. Where was he going with this?

He eyed your guarded expression, undeterred. “Then think of this as a one-time only welcome to Paris gift. I'm sure you'll love it here.”

One look into his eyes spoke volumes of his adamancy, not to mention his sincerity. And really, it was none of your business how some rich boy spent his money. If he was willing to throw a large tip your way, you weren’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth for a second time.

A cheeky grin blossomed on your face. “A welcome to Paris gift, huh? Better late than never, I guess. Thanks, man. Really appreciate it. Your English is impeccable, by the way.”

He laughed, shook his head. The perfect image of modesty. “Thank you. And don’t mention it. Have a good night, Madam. Stay warm.”

“Yeah, you too. Enjoy the grub.”

With a short wave goodbye, he stepped back inside and gently closed the door. The grin didn’t leave your face, even as you made your way off the property with a spring in your step. It wasn’t often that you received tips, and certainly not in amounts near equivalent to the price of the food you were delivering.

Screw the ramen in your kitchen cabinets. Tonight, you’ll dine like a king.

\---------

And by ‘dine like a king’, you really meant splurging on a delicious sub and a bag of chips from the corner store near your apartment. Nothing extravagant, but tasty nonetheless. Ten bucks only stretched so far.

You returned home from work about an hour ago, had stuffed your face with food, and forced yourself to get through a few pages of your assigned reading before calling it quits. There was only so much translating you could take before your brain tapped out of the fight. Not all battles can be won in a day, after all.

But without the work to keep you occupied, it was easy to remember that silence was your sole companion, your solitary confidant.

Things often felt lonely when you lived by yourself, especially after midnight. When you were younger you would stare up at the moon and wish for a mere glimpse of a true starlit night. Back then the stars were hidden, drowned out by city lights, and the sky had been nothing but an empty void. 

How did the saying go? If you stare into the abyss, the abyss will stare back? Maybe it did all those years ago, and you simply hadn’t noticed.

It was on such a quiet, starless evening that you had met your old friends. A misfit band of teens with well-meaning goals and not an ounce of wit to put their ideas into action. What they lacked strategically they made up for with tenacity and persuasion, and they had used both to encourage you to join a murder of flightless crows—all mischief and aggression, and yet so tightly confined within the stringent boundaries of society.

They weren’t the best group to have fallen into. You knew that now. A part of you knew it back then. But on nights like this when everything was still and the silence prevailed, something in you missed the company. You wouldn’t call it homesickness, and you were too afraid to try and give the feeling a proper assessment.

So instead you turned on the tv and tried to forget what hitting rock bottom had felt like.

The news was on. Some segment about the weather. You weren’t mentally invested, but you preferred the background noise over the rushing sound of your own thoughts. The couch creaked beneath your weight as you laid back, feet hoisted on the armrest and eyes closed. A fleeting moment of peace amidst the roaring wind and the scripted voice of an anchorwoman.

_Expect a few showers next week as a cold front settles in over the weekend. Stay dry, and remember to pack an umbrella as we move forward into Monday._

_And next up, we take a sneak-peak into the daily life of Paris’s crime-fighting duo after this commercial break._

You scoffed tiredly before shifting positions. Paris’s crime-fight duo? Yeah, you’ve heard of them. The golden apple in the public’s eyes, the famous, charismatic Ladybug and Chat Noir. Wouldn’t asking them personal questions about their daily activities defeat the idea of anonymity? Superheroes wore masks for a reason.

And Ladybug and Chat Noir were nothing if not heroes, and not just because they were skin-tight leather wearing partners with weird powers. They were heroes because they didn’t tread the line of moral ambiguity, plain and simple. They saved the day, did what was right. Everyone adored them, admired them, aspired to become them.

Some people just had it made, lived all the way up on cloud nine. Bet the view was nice up there.

There was no one like them where you came from. The only heroes you had back home were the men in blue, and there was only so much they alone could do against criminals you used to think only existed in comics. They were few and far between, not like Paris where there seemed to be a new evil villain for every day of the week, but they existed. They lived and they thrived.

And you had hated it.

You had wanted to become a hero once. Call it a childhood dream, an idealistic notion held by a brat who had seen too many action movies. Turns out not all heroes were cut from the same cloth, and you were the equivalent of the threadbare scraps that got swept up from the floor.

But that was from an era long gone. It didn’t matter anymore.

It didn’t matter at all.

It mattered so little that you fell asleep wondering what cloud nine looked like.


End file.
